I sometimes tell people I’ve been happily married for 27 years.
My wife, Rebecca, and I have been married for 30.
The other three — the harder years — weren’t consecutive. One came relatively early in our marriage, after the birth of our first daughter. Another arrived more than a decade later. The third was more recent and ultimately resulted in my decision to get sober.
Each rough patch involved different problems, but they had something in common: One or both of us had gotten pretty far away from the healthiest versions of ourselves.
When I got married, I thought that was one of the things you did to become a grown-up. You graduated from college, got married, bought a house and had some kids.
Thirty years later, I think I had it backward. Getting married doesn’t make you a grown-up. Becoming a grown-up helps you stay married.
For me, a big part of growing up has meant changing the way I talk to my wife. In particular, I’ve become wary of three very ordinary words: “no,” “but” and “you.”
Of course, I don’t literally never say them. I’ve just learned to be more thoughtful about when and how I use them. And just as important is what I’ve learned to say instead.
Instead of ‘no,’ I look for the ‘reciprocal yes’
During the first of our difficult years, Rebecca told me she didn’t know if she could keep doing our marriage the way we were doing it. “This isn’t what I signed up for,” she told me.
One of her biggest frustrations was my defensiveness. She would tell me about her experience, and my reflex was essentially: Nope. That’s not what happened. It’s probably not that. It’s probably this other thing.
I had to learn that supporting Rebecca didn’t require agreeing with everything she said. Instead, I could look for what I think of as the “reciprocal yes”: something I could say yes to even when my answer to something else was no — a way to say no to the thing while still saying yes to her.
One of my favorite examples actually comes from our daughter. When she was 9, she watched “The Martian” and decided she wanted to go to Mars. I knew there was a 100 percent chance she was not going to Mars, but I didn’t tell her no.
Instead, we spent a delightful afternoon going to Mars. We drew spaceships, packed supplies and researched whether we could grow tomatoes there. Eventually, I introduced enough actual science that she decided Mars sounded like too much trouble and went outside to jump on the trampoline.
The stakes are higher with a spouse. Sometimes the answer really does need to be no. Healthy relationships require boundaries, disagreement and two people who are allowed to want different things. But I try not to leave Rebecca alone with my no.
If I can’t talk right now, can I say when I can talk? If I don’t want what she wants, can I remain curious about why she wants it? If I disagree with her complaint about me, can I still listen for the part that might be true?
The same goes for how I interpret her behavior. The question I ask my clients more than any other is, “Are you sure?” Someone will tell me that their partner did this, which must mean that. Are you sure? I’ve had to learn to ask myself the same question: Is Rebecca actually attacking me, or do I just feel that way? Feeling attacked is not the same as being attacked.
Before I get defensive, I try to ask: Where is the reciprocal yes?
I replace ‘but’ with ‘and’
Consider these three sentences:
“I’m sorry, but …”
“I hear you, but …”
“I love you, but …”
You can probably feel what’s coming.
I’ve become suspicious of the word “but” because it can diminish whatever comes before it. If I say “clause A but clause B,” I’m signaling that clause B is what I really want you to hear.
This is especially damaging during an apology.
“I’m sorry I hurt you, but you have to understand what was happening for me.”
The explanation may be completely legitimate. But my apology has become a prelude to the case I wanted to make.
Instead, I practice replacing “but” with “and.”
“I’m sorry I hurt you. And, if it would be helpful, I can explain what was happening for me.”
It sounds like a tiny grammatical change, but its effect can be much bigger. “But” asks me to choose which of two things is more important. “And” allows both to be true at once.
I can be sorry and have an explanation. Rebecca can be angry and I can disagree with her interpretation. I can love someone and want something to change. Making room for two different perspectives can keep us from getting stuck on whose is right and help us focus on what to do next.
The famous rule from improvisational theater is “yes, and.” It’s pretty good relationship advice, too:
When we feel trapped in a binary — either I’m right or you are, either I give in or you do — “and” creates the possibility that something else might also be true.
I try to replace ‘you’ with ‘I’
The word I hear most often from couples in my office is “you,” particularly at the beginning of a difficult sentence.
“You always …”
“You need to …”
“You made me …”
When I start there, I’ve usually located both my problem and its solution in Rebecca. Now she has to change before I can be okay.
“You” comes naturally to me. Because of how I’m wired and how I grew up, my first instinct is to look outside myself for whoever is responsible when something goes wrong. During our most recent hard year, I had to learn to turn that attention around.
I haven’t finished learning. A few months ago, I was on a work call when Rebecca came into the kitchen, started unloading the dishwasher and asked me a couple of questions. I snapped, “I’m on a call.”
That sentence starts with “I.” What it meant was that she should have known better. Sometimes the “you” is only implied, and the other person hears it anyway.
After the call, I realized I didn’t want to be the guy who snaps at his wife for doing regular stuff in the kitchen. I texted her to apologize, told her it was my fault and said I shouldn’t have spoken to her that way, no matter how distracted I was.
When I catch myself pointing at Rebecca, I try to focus on my own role instead:
What am I responsible for?
What did I contribute to this argument?
What can I own quickly?
The last question is still the hardest for me. The first two happen in my head. Owning something quickly means saying it out loud, often before I’ve finished building the case for why I was right. But the longer I wait for Rebecca to go first, the more resentment builds.
This isn’t the same as the “I statement” formula many couples learn: “I feel __ when you ___.” In my office, I often hear people say something like “I feel abandoned.” That may sound like a feeling, but it can also be the judgment “you abandoned me” with an “I” placed in front of it.
Focusing on I does not mean accepting responsibility for another person’s behavior. It means refusing to surrender responsibility for my own. That gives me back some agency: Rebecca no longer has to say exactly the right thing or offer the perfect apology before I can participate in repairing the relationship.
It’s not really about the words
The problem with “no,” “but” and “you” isn’t the words themselves. It’s that they can oversimplify nuanced conversations, leaving less room for curiosity, disagreement or change. Even “I feel” can sometimes close things off.
With clients, and with Rebecca, I’ve started saying “part of me.” Part of me is angry about this. Another part of me knows I had something to do with it. Much of the work of being a grown-up in a relationship is recognizing all those parts and choosing which one gets to speak.
I don’t have a perfect marriage, but I have had a lot of practice.
If Rebecca reads an article on “3 words I never say to my partner,” she will undoubtedly point out that I absolutely say “no,” “but” and “you,” and she’ll be right. I’m still practicing.
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